Distant Nights of Passion and Doom
by Dark Manifest
Summary: Love is a warm gun and leather on the skin. Random glimpses of Dante and Trish.
1. at the end of the day

**At The End of the Day**

**All disclaimers apply.**

**Note:**Claim for the fanfic100 Livejournal community. Will I actually reach one hundred? Pfft, hah, yeah right. But if I gotta attempt it with anybody, I might as well with these two. As usual, comments and criticism are welcome. Enjoy.

_**060. Drink:** __Hold your liquor and hold your tongue._

**-**

"It's an interesting idea," she said. "Domesticity."

Dante paused mid-swipe of his whetstone on Rebellion's blade. It seemed like he was cleaning and polishing it all the time for no real reason at all, just to indulge the habit. That was the upside of a generally complacent sword in comparison with moody thunder gods incarnated that were always pristine and just insolent enough to offer up a zap if a whetstone came anywhere near them.

But he was in a good mood. Cigarette smoke in his lungs, a pint of whisky next to his hand - the good stuff for once, Macallan single malt scotch, not the cheap crap he usually sucked down like ambrosia - some metal song blaring from the stereo on the other side of the room. Black Sabbath, he guessed.

Trish was to his right, lounging on the beaten-up sofa, legs crossed, her arm stretched along the back and her slender fingers tapping against the battered leather. Dante wondered if she even knew she was following the rhythm of the song. He decided she didn't. She didn't like metal, or music in general. It was probably a devil thing. But it was possibly a Trish thing, because she was strange like that, and it was why he liked her.

He examined the blade in his hands for the umpteenth time for imperfections, shrugged and went back to cleaning it. "I think that's just the booze talking," he said, knowing as he said it what she was going to say next.

He was right. "I don't get drunk," she said, very slowly, as if breaking down basic math for a second grader.

"You'd have to be drunk to start talking like that." Dante took a long drag of his Marlboro. The bitter smoke felt warm and somehow comforting, and he held it in for a few seconds before releasing it in a long, slow exhalation though his nose. "Domestication. That's what you do to pets. Want a collar, Fido? Mind losing your balls, Fluffy?" Another strike along Rebellion's edge, and it was finally looking usable again. Damned acid-spewing demons. "Or cows," he added. "We eat cows, you know."

"I'm just saying," Trish said a trifle defensively. It was hard to tell, because her defense always seemed like a sneaky offense, and he had to be on his guard when she came off as subdued. "The concept of routine. What's considered normal."

Still considering his sword, Dante tossed the butt into an ashtray and took another swig of whisky. He was working up to a comfortable evening buzz, soothing enough to actually let his mind try to follow the course of his partner's logic. "Normal's relative. Like art."

"Don't tell me it hasn't occurred to you."

He considered lying. He didn't think she cared whether he was telling the truth or not if it didn't pertain to business. But alcohol and nicotine were great for easing barriers, so he let a little honesty filter through the usually stalwart defenses. "Maybe when I was younger," he admitted. "Pre-demon head decoration, I think. Just not anymore."

Rebellion shone brightly in the dim lights, and he ran a thumb along its edge to test the sharpness. It sliced through his skin easily. Good as new.

Without warning, he raised the sword and hefted it through the air in Trish's direction. Her eyes were closed when it came flying toward her, but she caught the hilt in one hand without so much as a falter, and set it up on the rack built into the wall over her head. That was Force Edge's old spot, but it didn't fit there anymore since it stopped being Force Edge, and she kept the Sparda elsewhere.

"I thought it was a human thing," she said thoughtfully, finally opening her eyes to study him.

Dante refilled his glass slightly too much, amber fluid sloshing over the rim. "Demon head decoration?"

"Domestication. So many of you seem to want it so bad."

"Insurance. No one wants their shit pulled out from under them."

"But that's what happens anyway."

"Which is when you get to the next step: Blissful denial." Ah, Macellan, the only way to live. He lit another Marb and decided that this could be one of the levels of heaven. You know, if a choir of angels sounded anything like Judas Priest, which was currently blaring from the speakers. Maybe a really nice part of purgatory, then. That was the place where all the cool people went in the Divine Comedy, anyway.

"The favorite pastime of your species." Trish sounded amused and probably looked the same, but Dante didn't see because he was too busy lounging back in his chair, eyes closed, feet kicked up onto his desk, more relaxed than he'd been all week. All month, if he was honest.

"Give me one of those," she demanded.

After blindly searching with one hand, he managed to find the pack of Marbs on his desk and held it out to her. He felt her pull one free, and was about to search for the matchbook, too, when he felt a hand fall on the armrest of his chair.

One eye open. She was leaning close to light her cigarette up off his own. Both eyes open. Her long hair fell over her shoulder to brush against his leg. He liked it best like that, when she didn't pull it back, but he had no intention of ever admitting it. It would sound strange coming from him, and even stranger being directed at her. She considered any compliments somehow suspicious, told him to save it for one of his pin-up girlfriends. They liked the compliments much better, but none of them deserved them as much.

He declined too long of a glance at her cleavage. She always had to wear the generously low-cut, tight leather anything - as if that wasn't bad enough, strapless or backless or, somehow, both. How nothing she wore ever fell off would remain one of the greater mysteries of the universe, right up there with platypuses and country music.

Cigarette lit, she sat down on the edge of his desk. After a couple of drags, she said, "Why do you like these?"

Dante shrugged and decided to look elsewhere for the sake of his sanity, but the sight of her lingered on his retinas in photographic negative. "No one _likes_ them. But they're easy to get used to, and they look good in black in white."

"What?"

"Film noir. Detective and the dame. Gotta love it." He smiled around the filter in his mouth. "We are a living, breathing cliche."

Trish snorted quietly. "And here I thought I liked you better when you're drunk."

"Everyone likes me better when I'm drunk. Brings out my charm."

He breathed out a huge cloud of smoke, ashed his cigarette, uncrossed and recrossed his booted feet on the desk, and grinned at her. She gave him a look that clearly called him an idiot without her needing to utter a word.

But she said it anyway, deadpan. "Idiot."

In response, he lunged forward, caught her around the waist with one arm, and hauled her off her feet and into his lap. They both lost their smokes and Dante nearly knocked over the whisky, which would have been a crying shame. Later on, he would claim the booze made him do it, not only because such a move was bizarre, it was also remarkably stupid. In all likelihood, she would electrocute him, lighting his hair on fire and giving him an undignified, full-body twitch for rest of the night.

Sure enough, Trish's knee-jerk response was a jolt that made his eyeballs tingle and the inside of his mouth taste like copper wire.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Good question, he would have liked to have known himself. "Either seducing you," Dante said, considering, "or having a psychotic episode."

"The inclination to seduce me at all _requires_ a psychotic episode."

"Aw. You don't give yourself enough credit. You're very fuckable."

Trish rolled her eyes. "Like I need to hear that from you." But, surprisingly, she didn't zap him six ways from Sunday. She merely balanced herself on his right leg, leaned forward, grabbed the bottle and poured herself another glass. Then she shoved the nearly empty bottle at him. "Here. Keep drinking yourself into a stupor."

"Will do."

She wasn't moving. This fact wasn't exactly lost on him - if fact, it was gnawing on the back of his brain like a rabid wolf with no intention of letting up.

Alastor, witnessing all of this from his perch on the far wall, made a pithy remark about Oedipus. Nevan, leaning next to the drumset, reinforced this with some Freudian logic. To which Dante responded with the mental equivalent of a rude hand gesture.

He really needed to find himself weapons that couldn't talk. Or at least start storing them in a back room somewhere. Maybe a trunk.

Trish rested her elbow on his shoulder and they both polished off the rest of the whisky in the sort of companionable silence that could only come from alcohol. Or so Dante assumed it was the alcohol, because the other possibility was just too unsettling to think about, and he was too buzzed to be unsettled.

His whisky-addled mind drifted in fuzzy contentment from one thought to another. The music of the moment was a classic by Iron Maiden, the phone had chosen the perfect hour to stop ringing and give him some much-needed peace, his partner was as soft as she looked, and no, he wasn't drunk enough not to appreciate that fact, and yeah, he wanted her more than he'd wanted anyone in his entire life. In that order.

And knowing just how hopeless that was added spice to entire concept.

"So, if you could have it," she said suddenly, "would you take it?"

Dante almost jumped out of his skin. "What?"

"Normalcy. If you had a choice."

That wasn't what she was asking. He didn't know what the real question was, but he had the acute suspicion that she was fucking with his head - a not at all unfamiliar feeling when it came to his partner. In no state to reciprocate mind games, he just said, "Nah. All that well-adjusted shit is overrated. I like my life just the way it is." Although one or two things could be improved.

"Demon heads and all?" she wondered, looking at him with blue eyes that somehow seemed wicked. Then again, she was always wicked.

He smirked. "Demon heads and all."

"You humans. So novel."

Dante grabbed her by the hair and laved the side of her neck with his tongue. In retaliation, she delivered a good dose of electroshock treatment which probably caused more than a few vital neurons to go permanently haywire. But it wasn't like he was using them, anyway.

When he managed to uncross his eyes and remember who he was, he was on his back on the floor, with x-number pounds of devil straddling his hips, staring down at him with equal parts curiosity and amusement. As if she was trying to figure him out and having fun doing it. He aimed to please, after all.

"Bitch," he said pleasantly.

"Ass."

"S&M doll."

"Sword fetishist."

He smirked. "Can't argue with that."

She rested her hands on the floor on either side of his head and leaned down over him. So much for not staring at her tits. Her mouth proved to be more interesting when she thoughtfully licked the edge of her upper lip. Long canines. Longer tongue.

She never could make things easy on him.

"What?" he asked.

"Just..." Trish seemed to weigh her answer. Dante just tried not to move with their parts all aligned like this. "I like this," she said finally.

"This?"

"This."

Fucking with his head, that's definitely what it was.

"No matter how weird it is?"

"Maybe because it is."

And just for a moment, for one beautiful, terrible moment, there was nothing, just her, and the way she smelled, and the way she felt.

Then it was over and she was Trish again, sliding away from him and saying something. It was no doubt sarcastic and mildly insulting, but he wasn't able to really focus on it. He figured that was because he was in the middle of an epiphany, and it was very distracting.

He wanted this, nights like this, days like this, a hundred more strange moments where nothing mattered.

He wanted her. Not the devil, or the woman with the too-familiar face, or the femme fatale in black leather, or anything else she came off as at first glance. Just her.

The instant of sudden unspeakable clarity passed. Dante found himself moving before the rest of him could catch up, heard himself saying, "Let's patrol."

His partner eyed him curiously as he went about gathering weapons. "Just random?"

"Why not?" He twirled Ebony around his finger with casual flair before settling the Colt into his thigh holster, along with its sister. "Got plans?"

She grinned. "I'll cancel."

"Wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

"I'm used to it. Life with you is nothing but inconvenient."

"Yeah, you love it."

At the end of the day, it was just shy of perfect.


	2. bark at the moon

**All disclaimers apply.**

_**AN: **__Big thanks for all your support. Story will hopefully update at least every two weeks from now on, and yes, there will be blood. And smut. Occasionally at the same time. Anyone bribed yet?_

_**045. Moon:**__ In an absurd turn of events, Dante gets bitten by a werewolf. Dog jokes ensue._

_Howling in shadows_

_Living in a lunar spell_

_He finds his heaven_

_Spewing from the mouth of hell_

_- Ozzy Osbourne, "Bark At The Moon"_

_

* * *

_

Tonight was a full moon, which, for everything that went bump in the night, meant _break out the kegs, Johnny_.

To this day, he didn't know what did it. Gravitational force, ancient powers from before the world formed, some kind of lunar-celestial bunny rabbit, or what the hell ever. All he knew was that once a month, he was working his ass off keeping this city in one piece until the sun rose after the third night and the creepy crawlies went back to their holes, or, in some cases, their well-furnished penthouses. Not everything evil came out of a sewer. Especially if by daylight, it looked just as human as anyone else.

Dante didn't know if this particular bastard lived in a high rise. Judging by the shredded remains of a Christian Dior shirt still clinging to its torso, though, it was certainly living better than _he_ was.

It just wasn't right. He saved the world on a regular basis and he could barely keep a roof over his head. This guy rampaged the streets eating people while wearing five hundred dollar shirts. Dante wanted to kick its ass for that alone.

More for the people-eating, though. Mostly.

He somersaulted backwards just in time to avoid being gutted, recovered and jammed Rebellion into the werewolf's chest. It roared at him, grabbed the blade, and _swung_. The hunter went flying, sword and all, rolled across the ground for a good fifteen feet before a parked car kindly stopped him.

Trish, sitting on the hood of said car, recrossed her legs and continued to look bored. She'd lost interest when it became clear Dante could handle this himself...more or less, anyway.

"Question," Dante began, studying the stars.

She glanced down at him. "Hm?"

"Think we should start making the city foot the bill for this? It's practically community service." They were already on commission; this particular puppy was somebody's uncle or whatever gone whack job and to be put out of everyone else's misery, but a little extra payment wouldn't hurt.

"Be happy they don't try to charge us with property damage anymore. Imagine what last week would have cost us."

Dante restrained a wince. Agni and Rudra had caused more destruction on the Stillworth Promenade than all two dozen _Ördög_ demons combined; pretty much what he deserved for unleashing the two of them in midtown, but it had been an emergency. "Point."

"Want some help?"

Damn, he must really look pitiful - she never volunteered for boring work, not even for money. It was already turning into a long night.

He sighed heavily, but nonetheless pushed himself to his feet. "Nah."

The big bad wolf had finally stopped licking itself and was coming at him again. Ideally, one stalked a werewolf back to its den, waited for moonset, then proceeded to feed the resulting human wolfsbane until he choked. Realistically, one just tried to skewer the damn thing in a brisk fashion and get on with life. Dante didn't have time to play strategist.

Or rather, he did, but he didn't _want_ to.

Later, he'd think maybe his willful laziness was ultimately to blame for what happened next.

He was mostly playing with the wolf at this point, stalling, looking forward to the next stop even less than this one, which was in the sewers to deal with some runaway Blades. If he fell in the water like last time, the stench would never come out of his -

That was when Rover performed an impressive feint, got under Dante's guard, and sank its teeth deep into his left forearm.

Dante stared at the mutt a moment as it tried to yank the limb out of its socket with admirable dedication. He cursed. "My _coat_, you fucking mongrel - "

He brought Rebellion down on the thing's thick neck and cleanly beheaded it...for all the good it did him when the jaws kept their deathlock anyway. Battering it with the end of his sword didn't help, and finally he sheathed the blade and started prying with his free hand. With a little elbow grease and a string of curses, he finally got it off and let it fall next to the soggy heap of the rest of the corpse.

Honestly, he was more concerned with the holes in his sleeve than the deep tears in his flesh, but while he was examining the damage, he noticed something unsettling: it'd been more than twenty seconds, and the wound hadn't closed. He was still dripping blood on the pavement, and now that he thought about it, not feeling too hot overall.

Before he could even open his mouth to mention it, Trish suddenly appeared next to him, grabbing him by the wrist.

"Shit," she said. "You idiot, of all things to get bitten by. Lycanthropy is _infectious_."

"Oh, come on, how bad could it _Christ Jesus superstar_!"

Faster than he could blink, Trish had produced a small vial of holy water in her free hand, used one thumb to flick the stopper off, and unceremoniously spilled the contents over his arm. Immediately, his coat and flesh started sizzling and smoking. Usually he could be all manly and stoic about having the equivalent of hydrochloric acid poured into his open wound, but she had caught him by surprise.

She ignored him, examining the injury. All the layers of skin and parts of the muscle had burned away, exposing white bone, but sure enough, it was finally starting to regenerate at the normal speed. She sighed in relief.

Dante yanked his arm away from her before she could do anything else to it. "Thanks for the advanced warning."

She snorted. "Just be grateful you won't be waking up with hair in strange places and the urge to hump everything around you."

"Nice. Puberty all over again." He couldn't really fault her caution. He was virtually immune to everything - except pathogens and poisons. Most of it wouldn't kill him the way it would a human, but unlike sharp objects stabbed through his major organs, it could put him down for the count.

Trish tossed the remainder of the vial at the corpse, turning it to less than ash, before walking off. Dante looked again at his forearm, the smooth, unmarked skin through the ruin of his sleeve, shrugged, and started after her. He would charge extra for the repairs to his coat.

* * *

The next day, he felt better than he had in weeks. He did a couple hundred handstand push-ups, showered, then bounded down the stairs, whistling an old Black Sabbath song.

Trish was lounging on the desk, phone to her ear. "Exorcism is a no go. There's a warlock or two who specializes in..." Pause. "Oh, it _manifests_. How big?" Pause, then he saw her lips quirk in a smile. "All right, half an hour. Start chanting now." She tossed the phone onto the receiver, swinging to her feet. It wasn't Sparda she took, but a sweet-tempered _liuye dao_ she had picked up in Eastern China, plus some protection charms. Nothing serious, then, so he decided not to ask to go with.

"How long?"

"Eight hours, tops. The ritual'll take forever, but I'd better help with the previews. You need me for something?"

"The Martin job. Tuesday, remember?"

Her brows lifted in recollection. "Oh, yeah. Go without me. I'll be there, fashionably late." Trish slung sword and sheath over her shoulder and walked out. A few seconds later, he heard the distinctive growl of her Yamaha.

Dante yawned, scratching his forearm absently.

* * *

The job took a little longer than she planned. The geniuses botched the ritual first time around and several of the demon's hysterical little servants broke through the circle, making a royal mess of things. Honestly, better to face down a devil general than work with incompetents. Less irritating.

She stopped at HQ just to switch weapons and get extra ammo, figuring Dante had left already. But she came to a dead halt upon crossing the threshold.

The office was a disaster. It was always a disaster, but now more so than ever. The desk was in ruins, scattered in pieces all over the room, trash from the overflowing bin spilled everywhere, the couch overturned, stuffing and springs exploding through the leather from deep gouges. Those same slashes were mirrored in the floor, ripping right through the iridescent wards printed on the wood. Most of them still glowed weakly. They had absorbed as much destructive power as they could and nearly overloaded in the effort. But at least they had kept the walls from being blown out.

Fuck. What kind of echo could do this level of damage? She and Dante had just renewed the protection seals all throughout the building. Nothing short of a knight-class demon could have torn the place up like this.

The only thing untouched was that damn jukebox. Of course. It had more lives than a Savage Golem and would probably outlive them all.

"What the hell happened?" she asked, looking over at what weapons were present. None had been stolen, it seemed, or were particularly upset by the events, but then, most of them had survived their fair share of apocalypses and were hard to shock.

_"Damnedest thing, cherry_,_"_ Nevan began in her smooth, electric purr. _"He started acting strange - panting and growling and clawing at his clothes - then he triggered, right in the middle of the floor. Rampaged awhile, then took off as if he had all of Hell on his heels."_

_"I've never seen that form before,"_ Alastor added, sounding intrigued. _"Has he evolved again?"_

_"So quickly? Not even he's _that_ good."_

"When?" Trish asked.

_"Not long ago,"_ said Alastor._ "Right after moonrise."_

Trish went still. Oh. _Damn_.

She had thought they caught it in time, or at least that Dante's immune system would handle any remaining anomalies. Stupid. His system couldn't even protect him from the flu.

She grabbed Sparda off the wall behind what was left of the desk automatically, then hesitated for a fraction of a second. Of all the weapons they had, Sparda was the only one that could conceivably kill him. But it was also the only one that could take him, period. Trish weighed the risks, then set the sword on her back. If it came down to it, she trusted her ability to withhold the final blow - or Dante to wipe the floor with her nonetheless, whichever.

"Ward up," she ordered, turning heel and starting for the door. "If he comes back in anything but human form, keep him out."

_"Hon, what's the problem?" _Nevan asked.

"Just do it."

They weren't hers to order around, but they would usually listen to her anyway if Dante was out of commission. She felt more than heard the ward activate behind her, a shimmering layer of defense twisting with warped faces. It wouldn't stop him for long if he had a mind to get through. But being strangled by massive ghost hands a few times might discourage him.

Trish mounted her bike and sped off, hoping she caught him before he did anything the city would overcharge them for.

All told, he wasn't hard to find, even though she hadn't known what to look for - a swath of destruction, gnawed-on corpses, Day-Glo traffic cones neatly leading the way - and her hopes that he had worn through his power by now and collapsed in an alley somewhere to be poked by hobos were sorely dashed.

Dante was as decent person as one could expect, but she had no illusions; his questionable impulses were as strong as his better ones, and in this state, it would be toss up which he would succumb to.

Heads or tails? Unthinkable slaughter or just sexually assaulting a few hydrants?

_Knowing him_, she thought, cruising to an abrupt stop, _both_.

He crouched on top of a parked car, and lifted his head to look at her. At least eight feet standing straight - though she couldn't be totally sure while he was hunched over on all fours like that - he was covered in very short, sleek white fur to match the cascade of pale hair down his silver-armored back. Claws each half as long as her fingers were as black as his belly armor, and she could see the pale pulse of his corelight beneath the carapace on his chest. His eyes, brilliant red, stared her down above a blunt muzzle full of impressive teeth. And then there was the tail. It was lizard-like but furry as the rest of him, maybe five feet all by itself, lashing furiously.

A _tail_. Oh, god. This was going to be so funny in the morning. If she lived that long.

As if he could read her mind, Dante-wolf launched at her with all the speed and precision of a heat-seeking missile.

Trish dove out of his path, rolled, and came up with Sparda in hand, and just in time, too, as Dante was on her, growling thunderously and trying to liberate her liver. The moon had to be fueling him instead of his devil blood. It was the only explanation she had for why he wasn't running out of juice. _Damn _it. On a good day and with a lot of luck, she could take him. In endless trigger on a mindless rampage, she didn't have a virgin's chance in an orgy. But she had to try - at least keep him busy until moonset.

His body was a furnace, giving off enough heat to qualify as it very own fuel source, but she didn't smell blood on him, and puppy had to be hungry by now. That was all she had to prevent, really, him dining on some poor idiot's entrails. Dante wouldn't appreciate the guilt in the morning, not to mention the awful mess it would take to sate him. Humans were filling, but several would hardly count as a snack for this big bastard.

Trish, on the other hand, packed a bigger punch in her little finger than any Joe Fleshbag did in his entire carcass.

She dodged again and before the wolf could recover and come at her, drew Sparda down the inside of her arm, elbow to wrist, through vessels and muscle and almost down to bone. It wasn't her favorite plan ever, but it was better than letting him wear her down, slap her head off, then go on a mad dog spree.

Dante went very still as the smell of blood filled the air. Even his growls stopped.

"Here, boy," she crooned, as aware of each drop that dripped from her fingers as Dante was. "I'm just one big juicy Red Bull." She considered. "Well, one _svelte_ juicy Red Bull, anyway."

Her vanity aside, she had his undivided attention now. He stared at her, or more accurately her arm, and for a long moment she wasn't sure what he would do, if anything. Then he _moved_.

In devil trigger, he was quick; as a werewolf, he was goddamn light speed. In the space of one half heartbeat, he had her by the arm and his teeth sunk gum-deep into her flesh, almost gnawing. That he didn't try to just tear it off was a small miracle, maybe, but it wasn't just ichor he wanted. Her power threaded through her veins, the storm she contained just underneath her skin. That was what he drew on, precise as a vampire.

Thank darkness she was plenty devil enough to render his venom harmless. But that did nothing for the jolt of pain, or the sickening euphoria that came from losing energy too fast, too hard.

He forced his fangs even deeper. Despite herself, she shivered, and had to force herself to stop. The creature noticed anyway and made a short, smug sound.

Oh, yeah, definitely Dante. Thought he was hot shit no matter what shape he was in. That he maintained his ego even in this form made her wonder what else of his had survived the transition. Something of a conundrum, one she would have to save for when she wasn't being sucked dry like a juice box.

Unlike a drink or even a battery, however, she could last a good long while. A regular energizer devil; just kept going and going and...

* * *

Dante became aware of three things in a particular order.

One, it was bright. Very bright. Obnoxiously bright. He groped for a pillow or covers to protect his eyes with and that was when he noticed the second thing: he wasn't lying in his bed, but rather a conspicuous combination of cold ground and soft, lukewarm body. Soft, lukewarm, unbreathing body, utterly still. A body that smelled awfully familiar, ozone and quality leather. Trish.

He found himself sprawled on top of her on pavement, in some godforsaken alley. Her eyes were closed, and she wasn't moving at all.

She wasn't the sort who went to ash when she died.

He was all ready to panic and do something embarrassing, like shake her frantically and call her name, when she opened her eyes to slits, took a breath that she didn't need anyway, and said, "Was it good for you, too, sailor?"

And then he noticed the third thing: He was bare-assed naked.

Dante considered the implications of this.

"...yes?"

Trish punched him in the face.

* * *

"Damn it," Dante groused. "As if I didn't have enough problems."

He paced back and forth across his demolished office, which had remained demolished during the night despite an assortment of sentient beings who were perfectly capable of cleaning it up, and unanimously refused to lift a single claw. Basement, for all of them.

Trish had righted his chair, miraculously in one piece, and now lounged in it, one foot propped up on a broken piece of the desk. She was recovering with her regular uncanny demonic speed, but still looked worn out, her skin paled to an unhealthy tinge, her restless aura barely a prickle on his senses. He had been the one to do that to her. His ears heated with the reminder. He couldn't remember a blessed thing after catching sight of the full moon, but there was a taste at the back of his throat...copper-sweet, with a tang like he'd used a lightning bolt as a lollipop.

She watched him pace with an exhausted, but sardonic twist of her mouth. "Always been charmed, haven't you?"

"Like a dead rabbit's foot," he replied, but couldn't help a half-rueful smile of his own, because it was all so ludicrous. "And best of all, no cure."

Trish shrugged. "All I can think of is wolfsbane, and that won't fix you so much as, you know, kill you."

He cursed softly, then turned to the arsenal. "How about you bunch, anything to share with the class?"

_"Kill the wolf who started the line," _Alastor's cool voice replied. _ "Of course, that could be any of a hundred devils, scattered in this world and the other. Lycaon, Fenrisulfr, Orthrus - "_

_"It was not Orthrus, I assure you_,_"_ Cerberus cut in, sounding faintly insulted. _"None of _my_ kin would pass our gifts along like a disease."_

"Bully for you, but it doesn't help me," Dante interrupted. "I can't spend the next year hunting down everything that howls until I hit yahtzee. There's gotta be a faster way."

_"The potential to live millennia and you whine about one year." _Alastor sniffed.

"Well, there's the little matter of me _eating_ people."

_"That_ still _concerns you?"_

His partner stopped him from going over to pitch the sword out the nearest window by sticking out her leg and halting him mid-stalk. "Calm down, Fido. If there's a way, we'll find it. But it's not our biggest problem right now anyway."

She was right. Whatever cure there was to find, they wouldn't get to it before tonight's third full moon, the last one of the month. Before he changed again, and went on another playful romp through a city poorly equipped to defend itself against him.

It was his greatest worry made real. Losing control of himself, setting his devil half loose on the world without his hard-earned humanity to reign it in. He'd never thought it would happen this way, figured it would come via his own moral failings or something Shakespearean like that, not because of an STD from an overgrown mutant dog. Wasn't it just the story of his life.

Dante sighed. "Guess that means the chains, then," he said, not at all enthused by the prospect.

Trish, however, perked the way she always did when she got to tie him up.

The chains, which they had picked up in a cursed dungeon and kept in the basement along with other supernatural bric-a-brac they'd collected over the years, were treated with enough hardcore spells to hold a Phantom down, but that was no guarantee they'd be anything other than a nuisance to him. Only one way to find out, though. They weren't banking on the manual restraints, anyway, but another form of persuasion.

That reminded him. Dante absently pulled at his bound limbs and resisted the urge to sneeze. Jesus, when was the last time anyone dusted down here. "About last night."

Trish finished locking the last loops of metal around his left wrist. They burned slightly against his skin, glittering now and then with runes. "Yeah?"

"I didn't, you know, do anything weird to you, did I?" he asked, looking at her sideways.

She returned the fish-eye. "What, you mean besides using me as a pacifier? No. No weirder than the way you keep trying to style my hair when you're drunk."

He huffed a laugh and was about to relax when she hesitated and added, "Well. There was this...thing."

Dante tried not to grimace, visions of demonic perversions dancing through his head. "What?"

"I didn't want to mention it," she went on slowly, not looking at him, "because it's really not that big of a deal. I mean, we're good enough friends not to let one little incident ruin the relationship, and it's not like either of us is _inexperienced_ or anything..."

By now Dante's eyes had gotten so wide that they were in danger of falling out of his head. "What?" he choked out. He was dreaming. He had to be dreaming and it was a _nightmare_. He hadn't meant - if something like that was going to happen between them, he wanted to at least be in control -

Trish finally met his gaze, face perfectly solemn. A tiny, almost hysterical noise escaped her.

"Oh, real mature," Dante snapped, horror dissolving into irritation.

She burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, you just make it so _easy_."

"You're lucky I'm strapped down," he grumbled. She was always screwing with him.

"Seriously, how helpless do you think I am?" Still breathless, Trish shook her head at him. "I was hardly about to let you so much as hump my leg, let alone ravage me."

"A man blacks out, he wants a little reassurance, is all. More than I should have expected from _you_, of all people, really."

She rolled her eyes. "You were strictly all about getting a snack, trust me. Besides, I highly doubt you'd molest me, even under some thrall."

Dante raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I've been known to molest you even stone cold sober." Only on occasion; it usually took a few to get him to risk electrocution.

"Yeah, but not like you ever _mean_ it."

"Now who says," Dante said quietly, "I never mean it?"

Trish went still and stared at him, a little wary, as if suspecting he was full of shit, but unable to read his tone enough to dismiss him outright. Dante just looked back at her evenly. He let the silence drag on for a few long, tense moments, during which he watched the awkward play of uncertainty on her face.

Finally, he grinned wide as a jack o' lantern. "Do I make you horny, baby?" he said in his best Austin Powers.

She reached out and plucked his nose with thumb and forefinger hard enough to send his head rocketing back into the wall. If he'd been human it might have killed him.

"Bitch," he managed past the momentary concussion.

"Ass." Her eyes dropped to the watch on her wrist. "Couple of minutes to moonrise."

Dante snorted and rattled his chains festively. "Let the dog show begin."

* * *

The change itself was quick and relatively clean, though whether or not it was painless, Trish couldn't tell. Dante had a high pain threshold and wouldn't give much sign even if it was agonizing. Once the moon was up, shining through the dirty glass of the narrow basement window, he started to shudder and then convulse, his eyes flooding red and his back snapping taut. It was a good thing he'd foregone a shirt and shoes, as the sweatpants he was wearing were shredded instantly by the power that flooded over his form.

The mystical chains automatically adjusted to fit him as his size doubled. His head almost brushed the ceiling before he hunkered down on all fours. One orienting shake of his shaggy self, then he set his burning gaze on her.

Her lips curved into a rueful smile. "Hey, boy. How's tricks?"

Snowflake, as she'd come to think of him, parted his jaws and roared hard enough to send all her hair sweeping straight back. Well, at least he didn't have dog breath.

"Yeah, missed you, too. You left quite an impression." She unbuckled her leather armband to show off her arm, the scars still lurid against her skin, healing slowly thanks to the venom in his bite. His eyes tracked the marks. "What say we get reacquainted." Now that she knew she had some kind of pull with him, she was more confident about her chances of keeping him on a leash. If he got out of hand, she'd use herself as a sacrificial Scooby Snack again.

The chains held up better than she'd thought they would, lasting a respectable three minutes. Snowflake ripped at them with his massive hands and fish-hook nails, snarling as they sparked and seared him, making his fur smoke. Eventually, he managed to get them off with a swell of strength, and they clattered to the floor. There was a hint of depth to his eyes now, of awareness. She didn't know whether that was a good or bad thing. An intelligent crazy werewolf could prove infinitely more dangerous than a stupid one.

He continued to peer at her, as if waiting for her to make the first move.

Trish had half expected him to immediately break the restraints and mow her over like a freight train, so she'd come ready for a fight with Sparda on hand. His calm was confusing, very different from the night before.

She rested Sparda's tip on the floor, leaning her weight on one hip. "So. How about those Red Sox?"

He blinked, and she sighed. "Some hazard you're turning out to be. If I'm just gonna spend the whole night dogsitting, I might as well - "

Snowflake _moved_ again, fast as a lightning strike, or probably faster than that, since she didn't have time to zap him before he was mere centimeters away, reaching for her. To feed, she knew, and she steeled herself for the pain of the bite, the dizzying drain of both his voraciousness and the poison seeping into her system, trying to shut it down and _turn_ her. Maybe this time he'd try to do worse, at which point she'd stick Sparda in his back and they'd go from there.

But it never came. There was just a pause, during which she wondered if he was thinking about how to do it, and then...the feel of hot breath and cold, wet nose on the side of her neck, across the line of her jaw, then up around her ear into her hair. Snuffling, breathing in short, quick breaths.

Smelling her.

Savoring his prey? Looking for the best place to bite? Checking for lice?

"Mine," he crooned, in a subterranean voice that she could feel vibrating throughout her entire body.

...what.

The surprise that he was capable of speech met with bewilderment at what he had chosen to say. All right. Probably a territorial thing. He had already good as marked her. "O-kay," she said slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves. "Uh, good dog." She reached up and sort of patted between his gigantic pointed ears, which swiveled towards her fingers.

He started making an odd rumbling sound deep in his throat. It sounded almost like snarling, and she wondered if he was about to take her head off, when she realized what it really was.

Purring. He was _purring_.

The only way this could get more surreal was if Mundus himself dropped out of the sky right now wearing a hot dog costume and playing the accordion. On the upside, though, she would be able to make Dante's life hell about it for the immediate future.

There were bony brow ridges under the white fur and she lightly applied her nails to them. He nudged her hand forcefully, trying to get her to scratch harder, still going like a Mercedes engine. He was half crouched, but it was still a reach for her to get to his head, his shoulders as wide as her whole upper body. So it wasn't at all difficult for him to suddenly bowl her over, pinning her to the floor with his bulk. Sparda was still grasped in her other hand and he didn't try to take it from her, so she wasn't _too_ worried, but it still wasn't exactly a reassuring position to be in.

All he did, though, was go back to sniffing, and she rolled her eyes at the ceiling, resisting a snort in case he heard it. Despite his apparently docile mood, she could _feel_ his hunger, like a pressure in the air, and wasn't about to provoke him.

Down he went, nose pressing coldly to the side of her throat, much too close for her comfort, before moving on, slow, between her breasts and down to her belly, snuffling all the way. Now she was even more uncomfortable, with those killing fangs hovering just over her core. One hit at an unlucky angle and she'd be putting a gold orb to good use. Her fingers tightened around Sparda in reflex and lightning gathered just beneath her skin as she pushed herself up onto her elbows to keep him in her sight.

She felt his mouth open and tensed up at the press of teeth, about to turn him into a crispy critter, but nothing happened - at least, nothing bad. They scraped over her skin, only hard enough to leave welts which were gone in an instant. Soon followed by the hot, wet brush of a rough tongue.

It was unexpectedly sensual, and there was that _shivering_ business again, having nothing at all to do with energy drain this time. An answering rumble from Snowflake was followed by words she felt more than heard: "Want. _Mine._"

If he started panting about "my precious" she was going to call this whole thing off.

Maybe Dante's concerns earlier weren't so ludicrous after all. He was such a horndog, and she couldn't even be amused by the pun because he was a big, ravenous horndog.

His tongue dipped into her navel and she set her jaw, because he was bringing his hands - paws? - into it, the claws leaving little tears in her clothing where they passed, ripping leather like paper. And now he bit her, just below the navel, deep enough to draw blood. Trish couldn't stop her sharp intake of breath, not because it hurt, but because it didn't, not really. Before, it had been all violence, demanding, and if she hadn't been strong enough to take it, it might have killed her. Now, it was...

It was all _wrong_. He shouldn't be lapping at the wound that way, as much feeding as soothing, his massive hands caging her hips, shoulders pushing her legs apart. He shouldn't be warm and heavy and _familiar_ against her, the way Dante had felt those few minutes between changing back and coming to the morning before, as neatly fitted to her as a puzzle piece. He had fur, a severe memory shortage, and a fucking tail, but it didn't matter. Things like that never mattered, because she always knew it was him.

Touching her like, for once, he meant it.

"Stop," she snapped. She shocked him, too, just enough to make her point clear. She didn't care if it pissed him off; better a fight than whatever the hell this was.

But he only lifted his head and stared at her with eyes now ice-blue instead of red, at her and _through_ her. He had always had too-honest eyes.

Trish didn't dare look too deep. "What are you doing to me?" she asked softly.

She wasn't talking to the wolf.

Snowflake - Dante - just looked at her for a moment longer, then he yawned, settled his huge head on her stomach, and went to sleep.

* * *

This time when Dante woke up naked and confused on the ground, he was alone. He groaned, trying to think past the excruciating headache, and struggled to sit up. It was like a horrible hangover, same as before, only for some reason worse than the last time. He felt like all his skin had been yanked off and stapled back on the wrong way. After awhile, he noticed he wasn't in the chains anymore. The basement didn't look trashed, but the taste of electrified blood was on his tongue, and he knew he'd fed again.

"Trish?" he croaked, looking around through squinted eyes. The basement was plenty gloomy, but even the little light coming through the window was too much.

"Welcome back," came her voice from his right as she descended the stairs. She threw a pair of jeans at him, and he was relieved to see she had a vital orb in the other hand.

Not too keen on the thought of standing, he wriggled into the jeans right where he was. "Any reason why I feel twice as shitty this time?"

"You didn't eat as much." Her voice was neutral in a way that made him look at her. He noticed that she'd changed her clothes; the black leather corset came down low, covering her belly completely. Before he could wonder about it, she activated the orb. Cool healing slid through him, and it didn't hurt to breathe and think anymore.

"Thanks."

"Sure." She sat down on the stairs. "So that gives us thirty days to find a cure. I'm thinking we can start with hunting down whatever bit that furball from the other night. It might still be within state lines."

"Probably left a nice, obvious trail of death even if it isn't." Dante pushed himself to his feet and stretched, joints popping loudly. He saw Trish watching him. "What?"

"You really don't remember anything, huh," she said, more a statement than a question.

He shrugged. "Nah. I'll probably get some weird-ass dreams later, but other than that."

The way she was looking at him seemed off, like he was a mystery she couldn't quite figure out. She hadn't looked at him that way in a long while.

"So it's not you. That wolf. The things it wanted aren't the things you want - otherwise, you'd remember." It sounded more like she was talking to herself than to him.

Dante stared at her, then shook his head, too tired and achy, despite the vital orb, to play with her. "Quit fucking with me, Trish. 'S not gonna work this time."

An odd little smile touched her lips. "Can't get one past you, Supernose. Sorry - want me to scratch your ears? You really seemed to like that, if the tail-wagging was any indication. Or how about a treat?"

"You're gonna milk this for the rest of the month, aren't you," Dante said, resigned.

"I wouldn't be a good partner if I didn't."

_caught between puppy love and the deep blue sea_


	3. leather and lace

**All disclaimers apply.**

**Note: **Gonna hop on this horse again, see how far I can get. Thanks so much to everyone who read and reviewed since the last update and before; you make me believe I can fly, you gaiz.

_**086. Choices: **__Trish models a few new looks for Dante._

* * *

"Too hardcore." Dante squinted. "And not in the good way." He liked head-to-toe leather as much as the next man, but there was a line between "stylin'" and "comes with a matching face hood".

Trish looked thoughtful. "Hm. How about this." She subtracted about eighty percent of cover - twenty percent more than would escape public indecency laws.

He grinned. "Now, that's the good way. But...now I kinda don't wanna share."

She rolled her eyes. "Ass."

One of the perks of having a girl who could self-generate her own clothing was never having to sit in the changing room area with the other losers holding her purse (or in Trish's case, her holsters).

Another perk was that he didn't have to share closet space. He had an _image_ to maintain, after all, and couldn't be caught with the same look every year. What kind of stylish points would that get him?

The downside was...well, Dante couldn't think of any. Especially not while watching sparks of pale lightning create the laces of skintight leather boots that formed oh-so-smoothly to long, long legs, from spiked heels to the tops of her thighs. The outfit was completed with a subtle flourish, leather pants, matching lace-up arm warmers, and an impossibly tiny top that did wonderful things to her breasts.

"Well?" she said after awhile.

"Hm?" he said dreamily, studying the laces as if trying to break a secret code - or figure out how anyone would manually get out of boots like those.

As if he ever wanted to her to get out of them.

"_Dante._"

He zipped his eyes back to her face. "Yeah! Yeah. I approve. But..."

"What?"

"The boots. Not enough skin."

Trish looked down, frowning a little. "They reach almost up to my ass. I'd have to wear micros at least this short - " with a few quick sparks, she demonstrated how short to give him an idea, which in turn gave him _ideas_ - "to make it all go together, Dante." Silence. "Dante?"

"...mhmeh?"

"Dante!"

He jumped. "Yes!"

"Okay, the boots are out." They vanished, replaced by her standard issue heels.

It was like watching an oasis reveal itself to be a mirage in the desert. "Aw, come on. They're nice boots. I _like_ the boots."

"You'll be so busy drooling over the boots that you'll get your head chopped off by a Sin Scissor."

"There are worse ways to die."

Trish looked torn between hitting him and hitting him until she knocked him out. "You keep this up, I'm asking Nevan."

In truth, Nevan would probably be more helpful; she certainly had as much style as he did and less of it was motivated by puerile lust. But then he would be deprived of the fashion show and that simply wouldn't do. He held up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right. Serious face on. Next one."

This one was closer in design to the outfit she'd worn when they first met, only it was clear more detail had gone into it. Dante especially appreciated the intricate curlicue stitching along the bust and the little lightning bolt zipper in the front. And not just because it gave him an excuse to stare at her breasts and offered much easier access, either. Actually, it was more modest than he'd expected. It worked within the laws of physics, for instance. The leather didn't seem quite so painted on, and the bustier seemed to stay up using more than a prayer.

"Wait," he said before he passed full judgment, "let me see the boots."

The zipper was on them, too. Nice. They were a mournful distance away from the thigh-highs, but they were still pretty sweet. Altogether, it was easily the best outfit so far.

"Top three?" she asked.

He considered. "Number one. Although I really think the assless chaps had possibilities..."

"You wear it first and maybe I'll think about it."

"That s'posed to be a challenge, hon? Because I'll go out right _now_ and - "

"Never mind," she cut him off, but she was smiling. "I don't want to share, either."

He pushed himself off his desk and walked around her in a little circle so he could see the full package. She could never go wrong with skintight leather. "So is that it? You stickin' with this look?"

"Well, to start. This one outfit is hardly a selection."

"A woman after my own heart." Dante grinned. "But we've already been at it for awhile, and you know me and my attention span."

Trish's slender eyebrow went up. "Oh, really." She stepped back, and lightning enveloped her entire form. When it dissipated, she was wearing the incredible boots again.

The boots - and nothing else.

"I have your attention now?"

He smirked. "Undivided."

_care to slip into something a little more comfortable?_


End file.
